Grace Note
by Beccy95
Summary: John had always wondered what emotions had prompted Sherlock to write a song for Irene. Until this moment, he had never suspected that he might have one too.
1. Chapter 1

_Milk_

_It's your turn to get the milk. –JW_

_Noted. SH_

_You won't get it, will you? –JW_

_Probably not. SH_

John sighed deeply, pocketing his phone as he locked the door to the surgery behind him. He was going to have to stop somewhere before he returned home, and he had really hoped that- for once- he could get straight back. But when Sherlock said "probably not", it not only meant that he had no intention of doing it, but also that the entire possibility had already been erased from his mind.

He buttoned his khaki coat against the unseasonably cold autumn wind, and then reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone once more.

_Are you in the flat? –JW_

_Yes. SH_

_Are you breaking things? –JW_

_Breaking can also mean burning, drowning or dousing in chemicals. –JW_

_Not at the moment. SH_

John smiled to himself, rolling his eyes- briefly looking up to cross the road, and then turning his gaze back to the glare of his phone's screen.

_Never thought I'd see the day. –JW_

_Technically, you are not seeing it. SH_

_Although your insistence on looking for reasons to complain would suggest that it would be a good idea not to tell you anything at the moment. SH_

The doctor chewed on his lip as he entered the supermarket, preoccupied enough that he forgot to pick up a basket and had to awkwardly about-turn to grab one. After a moment's pause, he replied.

_Why not? Is something wrong? –JW_

_Nothing is wrong. I am avoiding conflict and dull conversations. SH_

John snorted to himself at that, but felt a twinge of mild worry at Sherlock's tone. His bad moods were a constant, but John sensed a hint of passive-aggression that wasn't entirely like him and wondered if something had happened in his absence.

_You don't usually avoid conflict. –JW_

And then, after a pause, he added-

_You can't work out everything internally, you know. Not even you. I don't mind if you want to talk about something that you deem sentimental. Or "dull", as you would no doubt put it. –JW_

_But I don't. Obviously. SH_

_Don't forget the milk. SH_

John shifted the carrier bag to his right hand before replying- unsure if Sherlock was in denial, or if he really was fine. He decided to give up that line of questioning; it wasn't worth the days of silence he would be treated to if he annoyed the detective enough.

_Got it. Won't be long. –JW_

As an afterthought-

_I'm sorry. I guess I overreacted. You've just been sensitive lately. I'm concerned. –JW_

_I'm fine. SH_

_A bit bored, I suppose. But I can fix that. SH_

_Don't fix it through drugs, experimentation on dead people on our kitchen table, or stealing my Sig and shooting the wall. Please. That aside, feel free to fix it. –JW_

_Ugh. How utterly pedestrian. SH_

_That's the third time you've called me pedestrian this week. –JW_

_I didn't call you pedestrian, but your suggestions. SH_

_Well, someone has to stay grounded. You know- clean, earn money, do the shopping, make the tea. How did you live without me? –JW_

In reality, John already had an idea how Sherlock had lived without him, and he suspected that the answer was Not Very Well. He wondered exactly how well it was possible for a borderline-psychopathic drug addict to live without the help of someone to remind him to eat, or bathe, or sleep.

_I had other flatmates. Sometimes. SH_

_Not for very long, granted. SH_

Now John really _was_ surprised- in his whole time knowing Sherlock, he had barely met one other person who could stand him for more than five minutes. He was amazing, that was true, but not everybody could stand being constantly reminded of their own inadequacies.

_Did you? I can't imagine that. -JW_

_Can't you? Despite the fact that you are one of those flatmates? SH_

John supposed that Sherlock was right- he couldn't be the only person in the world whose curiosity regarding The Great Detective overtook any apprehension or irritation. But it still seemed strange, to him- the idea of another person, in another flat, with another Sherlock. A different time altogether.

_But you and I match. I can't imagine you living with someone else. –JW_

_I can't even imagine you as a child, growing up in a house with other people. It's as though you've always just been an independent little entity, floating around on your own. –JW_

John stared at his outgoing text, realising how bizarre that observation sounded. He decided to clarify-

_Don't worry, I know that can't be true. Sometimes when I'm annoyed I think of what it must have been like for you and Mycroft to live together. It amuses me no end. -JW_

_That's an image you can keep. Apart from the floating, maybe. SH_

Damn. He knew that had come out weird. His phone lit up again, unexpectedly.

_And I can assure you; there is nothing amusing about living with Mycroft. SH_

_You really must be bored if you bothered to reply to a text about Mycroft. –JW_

_I spoke the truth when I assured you that nothing is burning, drowning, or exploding. SH_

John raised an eyebrow; surprised- perhaps he had been right when he had thought that something was wrong with Sherlock earlier. They weren't on a case, which usually meant that he would return home to eyeballs in the microwave and the stench of formaldehyde permeating the entire flat.

_It's concerning. What's got into you? -JW_

_Nothing at all. I think you're simply projecting your issues onto me. SH_

_I don't have any issues, Sherlock! –JW_

_Are you sure? SH_

He couldn't believe that Sherlock Holmes was accusing him of having issues- Sherlock, who had been gifted with more professional mental health diagnoses that he had hot dinners. He was about to send an indignant reply when he actually began to consider his flatmate's words. Okay, Sherlock. Good point. You win.

_I have PTSD, I carry a gun illegally and I get off on the danger of death. The day after I met you, I shot a man in the head to save your life. No issues at all. –JW_

_Point taken. SH_

And then, after a moment-

_But he wasn't a very nice man. SH_

John smiled at that, but didn't bother to reply- he was just rounding the corner onto Baker Street, and would be at the flat in a moment. As he approached the door, he reached for the handle- but found it locked. Shaking his head, he reached into his pocket for his keys, but found –much to his chagrin- only the smaller key to the surgery, and not his own. "Shit," he muttered, checking every other pocket on his person before getting his phone out again, defeated.

_Open the bloody door. –JW_

_You have a key. SH_

_I left it at the surgery, apparently- and some bloody plonker has locked the door from the inside. –JW_

_I mean you. –JW_

_Safety precautions. SH_

_Not you forgetting your key, to clarify. That's just you failing to get the basics right. Then again, you barely manage to operate a chip and pin machine. I don't know how you've survived thus far. SH_

_They're confusing- JW_

_No, they really are not. SH_

John let his head fall against the black lacquered surface of the door to 221B, groaning in frustration. He looked around for another option- eyes falling on the bright window of the café, which was the main light source in the mid-evening gloom of the street.

_I'm in Speedy's getting a coffee. I got bored of waiting for you to open the door. –JW_

_Yes, I was already wondering. SH_

John sat down at one of the cold metal tables outside the shop front, watching the darkness descend upon the street. He could hear the mournful opening notes of Bach's _Chaconne _floating on the wind- it was one of Sherlock's favourites, and he recognised it with little hesitation. The realisation frustrated him no end.

_I can hear your violin from here. I like how you have enough hands to play, but not enough to open the bloody door for me. –JW_

_It isn't my violin. SH_

John laughed bitterly, distractedly dumping a little more sugar than necessary into his coffee.

_Who the hell else plays Bach on Baker Street at 9pm? Do we have an interesting new neighbour? Or perhaps you're being serenaded by someone from the Royal Philharmonic? –JW_

_John, as much as I'm flattered by your belief that I can do literally anything, I cannot play the violin and text simultaneously. I am sadly limited by my possession of only two arms and ten fingers. SH_

_You might have been taking breaks. You do that sometimes, when you compose. The only time you didn't was when you composed that song for Irene. –JW_

John took a sip of his overly sweet coffee, considering his text. Perhaps he should have steered away from that particular subject- he considered Irene Adler to be Sherlock's weakness, and he was half-sure that the detective held the same opinion.

_I did not compose a song for her. I composed a song whilst we were on that case. SH_

_You composed a song for Irene. You've never composed a song for me. –JW_

_Did you love her? –JW_

There was a long pause in which John finished his coffee, assuming that he had indeed touched a nerve. He didn't trouble himself with it too much- after all; there wasn't much he could do whilst he was still locked out of his own home.

_Where is that coming from? SH_

Sherlock's eventual reply sharpened John's awareness of his surroundings, and he could only assume that the detective was referring to the violin music which had latterly increased in volume to the point where it was now obvious that it wasn't coming from their flat.

_Why don't you go and investigate it, "consulting detective"? –JW_

_You do know that quotation marks are usually used in that context to invalidate the content in-between? SH_

John smirked- he could practically feel Sherlock's outrage from down on the street. He twisted round, determined to find the source of the music that was now loud enough to be incongruous with the quiet near-darkness of the street.

_Never mind, I've found it. Car, parked halfway down the street. Tinted windows, as far as I can see. Something to do with you, perhaps? –JW_

_Possibly. SH_

_Is there something you aren't telling me, Sherlock? –JW_

_There are a lot of things, actually. SH_

John bit his lip, draining the last of his latte from the nondescript white mug in his hands.

_That's worrying, and yet not hugely surprising. Anything that you're keeping from me that could get me killed imminently? –JW_

_You are not getting killed. SH_

_That's reassuring. –JW_

There was another long wait- John nibbled at a slightly stale pastry and watched a tiny moth flit around the fuzzy glow of his phone screen.

_Where's your gun? SH_

If John hadn't been worried before, he was now.

_Top desk drawer, right hand side. How worried should I be that you're asking this? –JW_

_Precautions, John. I have no intention of missing. SH_

_Oh for Christ's sake. Do you need me up there? –JW_

The reply did not come quick enough for his liking, and he urgently added-

_I'm coming up. –JW_

Sherlock replied quickly this time, with a frantic-

_No! SH_

John jumped to his feet and jogged to his front door, rattling the unyielding handle. This was Not Good.

_If you don't open the door, I'm coming up the back stairs. –JW_

_Just stay at Speedy's. I can handle it. SH_

_I'm texting Lestrade. –JW_

He said that, but he made his way over to his original table and sat back down, impatiently tapping the fingertips of one hand on the grubby metal surface.

_John, please stop overreacting. You'll only make it worse. SH_

The doctor looked at the screen of his phone in disbelief. "Overreacting?" he muttered to himself, outraged.

_Sherlock, you're about to shoot someone. With my gun. –JW_

_It's a precaution. I may not need it. SH_

_Are you about to get yourself killed? –JW_

_No. SH_

_Are you sure? –JW_

_Well, that would be the worst-case scenario. SH_

Unsurprisingly, this little revelation did not succeed in making John feel any better about the situation. He had to fight the urge to kick the door down and rush upstairs with every muscle in his well-disciplined body. His phone lit up again, but this time it wasn't his flatmate. He glanced at the text, and then replied to Sherlock by way of a warning.

_Lestrade said he doesn't have time to chase after you when you're being an idiot. So you're on your own. –JW_

_That doesn't worry me in the slightest. I fail to see what his utterly inept team could bring to this situation. I have some enemies- this is simply one of them paying a visit. SH_

_We could have done with the milk, though. I can't even offer tea. SH_

John glanced at the plastic grocery bag at his feet, horrified.

_They're IN OUR FLAT? –JW_

_SHERLOCK. –JW_

_Calm down. SH_

John was seething as he read Sherlock's words, utterly dripping with condescension. He wondered how the detective could fail to see how this was at least mildly worrying to him.

_Well, you don't always entertain the people who are trying to kill you, you know. –JW_

_Or do you? And I just don't know about it. –JW_

_Well, who else would be worth the effort? SH_

John shook his head, but he couldn't say that he was shocked by Sherlock's response. He liked a puzzle- anything that could occupy his mind and take him away from the dull monotony of everyday life for more than a moment. John rarely offered that to him, and that was why he never offered John tea.

_What do your criminals think of the phone glued to your ear? They must be insulted. –JW_

_Oh, she doesn't mind. SH_

_She? Well, that's unexpected, somehow. –JW_

_Ah yes. That slipped. SH_

John doubted that very much. He could count on one hand the amount of times that he had heard Sherlock say something accidentally- his words were often wrongly interpreted by others, but this was different. What other way was there to interpret "she"?

_Irene? –JW_

_What are the chances of a dead woman climbing in the window? SH_

He had forgotten that Sherlock knew about that. He was right- it was impossible. Nevertheless, the idea kept pressing at the back of his mind.

_Well, she's the only woman you know. Except Molly. Is she a criminal mastermind? –JW_

_Funny. SH_

_Just curious. –JW_

_She did fake her death once before, if you remember. –JW_

_I am aware. You have quite the obsession with Miss Adler, you know. SH_

John bristled at the accusation and rapidly texted back.

_No I don't, but you liked her. She's the only woman you've ever shown an interest in. The only person, actually. –JW_

_Moriarty? SH_

Was he really that obvlivious?

_In a romantic way, Sherlock. –JW_

_Ah, yes. Nothing more romantic than needing a gun for protection every time you meet. SH_

_Not romance, then. Desire. The first time I met you she was straddling your lap with no clothes on. It leaves an impression. –JW_

_That, I presume, was the point. SH_

John snorted, before shoving the last of his pastry into his mouth and chewing contemplatively. Sherlock was right; he supposed- everything that The Woman had done had been engineered to make an impression. Otherwise, it wouldn't have been worth doing at all.

_Yes, she was clever. –JW_

_I suppose. SH_

_Not clever enough in the end. SH_

It was sad, Irene's fate- but it almost made John laugh to see how quickly Sherlock would jump to defend his genius status. Nobody else was allowed to match him, or it would invalidate everything he strived for- individuality, praise, recognition. He struggled with the huge weight of his huge mind on a daily basis, and to Sherlock, "clever" was very much a status that had to be earned.

_So if it isn't Irene or evil Molly, who is in our sitting room with you? –JW_

_Why do you think I locked the door, John? SH_

_With hindsight, I'm guessing it was to keep me out and not them. –JW_

_Exactly. So kindly stop bothering me with questions that you know you won't get an answer to. SH_

John was getting impatient now. This was his flat, too, and he was paying half the rent, and it was his stuff in the little upstairs bedroom- so he couldn't believe he was being patched in favour of a bloody criminal.

_Any idea when your criminal plans to vacate? I'm on call tomorrow morning and the café shuts in half an hour. –JW_

_I can't say. It isn't exactly my choice. SH_

John slammed his hand onto the table top in frustration, startling the only remaining customer on the other side of the window. He smiled apologetically and raised a hand at them, turning back to his phone and angrily punching another message into the keys.

_I'm going to Harry's, so you can sod your milk. –JW_

_Try not to get killed. There are extra rounds in the skull, if you haven't stolen them already. –JW_

The doctor stood abruptly, making his way over to the till to pay. This was ridiculous- he was going to have to suffer Harry's alcoholic ranting and hung-over grouching because Sherlock was having too much fun to let him into his own home. Jesus Christ- the thought of it made him cringe. Maybe he would just check into a hotel for the night.

_I'll make it half an hour, alright. Get another coffee. SH_

And with that, John's anger dissipated and he smiled idiotically at the phone in his hand. He liked to be reminded that Sherlock could have feelings; sometimes- it let him know that he wasn't crazy for liking the man so much. He bought another coffee and sat down again, eyeing the clock on the wall. Eventually, he decided to reply.

_Thank you, Sherlock. –JW_

And with that, he settled down to wait.

**A/N**

**Holy Mary, this was longer than I expected. This is my first ficced RP, hence the texting in this chapter and the reason it is so definitely in John's POV. It does turn to full prose in subsequent chapters for anyone who dislikes reading the texts!**

**Full credit for Sherlock's actions/responses go to the lovely other half of this RP, who wishes to remain anon. They provided the ideas regarding Sherlock- I just rearranged them a bit.**

**Warnings:**

**-I don't have a beta-reader so there may be small mistakes- but I do welcome con-crit and the correction of any typos that I may have missed.**  
**-If you're going to fic a role-play, make sure you get the express permission of the other half. It's their intellectual property as well as yours!**


	2. Chapter 2

_The door is unlocked. SH_

John stretched, relieved, and then stood from his table to order both of them a last coffee before closing time. He crossed to the flat, both hands full, and awkwardly manoeuvred the door open with his shoulder. He had been worried about Sherlock- internally, he had been almost frantic- but he had long ago learnt that it was best not to argue with him when he was being like this.

"Sherlock!" he yelled, despite knowing perfectly well that the detective already knew where he was. "It's me!"

Upstairs, Sherlock was closing the windows- the obnoxious car was gone, he noticed, but John would never have seen its occupant. She, along with her vehicle, was long gone- but he couldn't have John snooping around the flat before he had cleared away any evidence. She hadn't been a terrible houseguest, truth be told- he hadn't had to use the gun- but regardless, it was better safe than sorry.

"I would never have thought," Sherlock replied, flopping down onto the sofa as John entered the room.

"Ha," said John drily, setting one of the cups of coffee down on the kitchen table. He looked over at Sherlock, surveying the damage- and was almost surprised to see that there was none.

Sherlock grinned uncharacteristically at the look on John's face. "You know, the coffee will only get cold there," he commented, with a glance at the kitchen table. That might have been pushing it, but he was in a surprisingly good mood considering the circumstances.

John unceremoniously dumped his shopping bag next to the coffee, but he gave in with a sigh and placed the warm cup in Sherlock's outstretched hand before shrugging off his coat and retrieving his own coffee. He leaned against the wall, his back aching after an hour spent in an unforgiving metal chair.

"It won't happen again. Not any time soon," said Sherlock after a pause, taking a sip of his coffee.

John took a moment before moving to sit in his armchair, glaring across the room at his flatmate. "I should hope not," he said, with a hint of Captain Watson sneaking into his voice. "It's bad enough that you try to get yourself killed when I'm there, never mind when I'm absent."

Sherlock frowned at the comment and let out a deep sigh. The smell of perfume was still lingering in the air, and at this point it was nothing but an irritation. "Just for your information, I'm not suicidal," he said, nodding in the direction of the other armchair. "Your gun is between the cushions."

John nodded shortly, glancing over to where Sherlock was indicating. A few moments later, he wrinkled his nose in distaste- obviously smelling the faint remnants of their visitor's over-strong perfume. "Do you plan on telling me who you were just entertaining, or is that between you and her? Were you with a criminal at all, or do you just want to hide a love affair from me?" he quizzed, making a face at the thought and then taking a sip of his coffee.

Sherlock barely managed to suppress a smirk. "I do believe I've already answered that question," he said, putting his cup down on the coffee table. "But yes, she is a criminal. That's all you need to know," he concluded, as though that settled the matter entirely. What John didn't know was that he had been correct when he first started guessing- but Sherlock was hardly about to tell him. Instead, he tried distractions. "Dinner?" he asked innocently. "We could order Chinese. Since you spent most of the day out, can I safely assume that you wish to stay at home this evening?"

"Yes. Since I spent most of the night _forcibly locked out of my own home_," he emphasised, "I would rather like to stay in." There was a pause as he stood up, retrieved his Sig from the cushions of the other armchair, and shoved it back in the drawer- safety now firmly on. "She must have been hard work," he said as he closed the drawer, "If you're eating. You know, voluntarily."

Sherlock stared at the ceiling with a long-suffering expression. "You can let it go now," he snapped impatiently. "If it makes you this upset, I'll be sure to give you a longer shopping list next time."

John sighed deeply, his shoulders dropping as he leaned forward onto the desk, resting his weight on his hands. "Yeah. Sorry, Sherlock. I just worry about you. You are- you're a worrying sort of person," he explained, uselessly.

"Even when I'm in no imminent danger and you have already received proof that I'm perfectly fine?" he asked, folding his arms beneath his head and crossing his ankles- the very image of requiescence. "There is a point when your worry becomes irrational. Some may even consider it 'abnormal'," he said, still gazing at the ceiling.

John frowned, watching Sherlock lounge in that improbable position of forced relaxation. "Of course it isn't," he said hastily, "Abnormal, I mean. I get worried. Other people get worried- it isn't irrational." He sighed, falling back into his chair gracelessly. "Probably," he added quietly.

"Probably," Sherlock echoed, his brow furrowed, "And I doubt there's any point trying to stop you." After a moment he sat up with a half-hearted shrug, moving on. "So, Chinese then?"


End file.
